The knight’s smile faltered. “You misunderstand me, Your Highness,” said Sir Kay. “I aim only to prove a point.”

“That winning is your greatest ambition?” Arthur suggested, earning some snickers from the crowd.

“That it’s impossible for any man to pull this sword from the stone,” said Sir Kay.

“So you’ve assembled us here to watch you fail?” Arthur asked with a frown.

“I—well—no,” said Sir Kay.

“I see,” said Arthur, surprised he’d managed to gain the upper hand. “By all means, continue.”

No one was cheering now. Still, Sir Kay stepped forward, dramatically wrapping both hands around the hilt of the sword.

The courtyard was silent as Sir Kay pulled. And pulled. Sweat dripped from his brow, and he groaned from the effort. But the sword didn’t budge.

Of course not, Arthur thought. It takes more than brute strength to overpower magic.

Sir Kay let go, and a disappointed murmur rang out.

“Knew he couldn’t do it,” someone complained.

“As I said, impossible,” the knight repeated, trying to save face. It was obvious he’d believed he would succeed.

“What a waste!” someone called.

“Oi! Make the prince try!” someone else yelled.

Arthur stiffened.

“Let’s see him pull the sword from the stone!”

More people shouted in agreement.

“Well, Your Highness?” Sir Kay challenged.

Arthur desperately wanted to refuse. But of course he couldn’t. Because this was what it meant, being heir to the kingdom. He was supposed to lead the people. To listen to them. And they were calling for him to pull the sword from the stone.

“Why not?” he said with a shrug, as though he hadn’t just agreed to humiliate himself.

He could feel the press of everyone’s stares as he made his way through the churchyard. They weren’t stares of encouragement. He was the boy who would be king, and it was clear on their faces: they didn’t want him.

But he already knew that. He’d spent his whole life as the embarrassment of the realm: King Uther and Queen Igraine’s bastard son. Even though he wasn’t, technically, a bastard. Born five months after his parents’ wedding, he was merely a scandal. And there was no law against putting a scandal on the throne.

Still, the courtiers had whispered. And King Uther had hastily made it clear that, although firstborn, Arthur would be raised as a spare. When the queen produced a rightful heir, the Royal House of Pendragon would have its crown prince. Except their next two children were stillborn. Then there was a daughter so weak that she had lived only a few hours. The queen had grown frail, but still Uther held out hope. A few months ago, it had seemed a grand celebration was in order. But neither mother nor child had survived the birth. Which meant Arthur was, well, it.